


Chiaroscuro

by DenmarkStreetGutterClub



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29946270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub
Summary: Lots of fics start fluffy and end explicit. This one doesn't.Blasphemy warning.I like peaches better ...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 23
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

chiaroscuro

/kɪˌɑːrəˈskʊərəʊ/

noun

1\. the artistic distribution of light and dark masses in a picture

2\. monochrome painting using light and dark only, as in grisaille

3\. the absence of softness, shading or fluff.

The room is white: the walls, the woodwork, the floor, the bed and bedding, the dressing table, the wardrobe are white. The white curtains hang either side of a generous swathe of white voile, which allows the shape of things outside to be seen, pale shadows in a white mist.

The woman arrives and her black trousers, shoes and jacket and her red gold hair disturb the peace of the room. She undresses immediately, hanging her black clothes inside the wardrobe, tucking her underthings into her bag and wrapping herself in a large white towel. She steps away, and turns back, frowns at her shoes and her bag, and puts them in the wardrobe too, and closes it.

She leaves the room through a different door. The room breathes out again.

After a moment, the man arrives. He is an affront to the sanctuary of the room; his dark, curly hair, his thick beard, his scowl, his clothes in a range of colours of which the dominant theme is a dark bluey-grey. He dumps a carrier bag on the dressing table, takes off his great coat and throws it on the chair, slips off his shoes and leaves them where they fall, at angles to one another, as if demonstrating a difficult dance move. He skulks about for a moment, then opens the wardrobe, not to make use of it, but due to a need to know what's inside. 

He sees the woman's clothes and smiles. He lifts the arm of her blouse to his face and draws a breath through it, drinking in her scent. 

The door opens and the woman returns to the room. She has bathed, or showered; her hair is damp and disheveled on her shoulder and she smells of the soap she has just found, a barely charred and gently spiced sablé. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees the man.

They meet each other eagerly, the man pulling the woman into a hungry kiss. She threads her fingers through his hair, delicately starting at his jaw, ending tangled in the curls at the back of his neck. He slides his hand over the snowy towel, where his imperfect nails snag a little and threaten to drag apart the tucks and rolls keeping it in place. They break apart.

"You found it?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to shower?"

"Do I smell bad?"

"No."

"Then, no."

The man turns to the window and closes the curtains, and the ghosts outside are denied a view. Turning back towards her, he is already unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and unpinning his belt with the other. 

The woman discards the towel and underneath she is unclothed. She pulls back the thick, white, down-filled duvet which looks so heavy but weighs so little. Behind her, the man is letting his trousers fall to the floor and stepping out of them with one fleshy ankle and one limb made of steel.

She peaches on the end of the bed and watches intently as he sits and un-straps the prosthetic leg. He catches her and laughs; a rusty sound, like shrapnel being dragged over rough ground. 

"I'm going to test you later."

She blushes.

"Sorry. Are women always fascinated?"

"No. Not always."

He stands the limb against the wall and, naked, rests back against the plush hotel pillows.

"C'mere ..."

The woman crawls up the bed to him, until the pale skin on the inside of her knees touches his hips. She reaches down and feels he is already hard. Bracing herself on his shoulder with one hand, she slides a finger inside herself and, finding only wet, lines him up and glides him in easily.

"Oh ..."

The man looks in shock at the utterly carnal look on her face, as she begins to move, drawing away until his cock almost slips out of her, and in, until their flesh meets. 

"Aren't we ... aren't we going to say grace?"

"Fuck grace."


	2. Chapter 2

The room is dark. The walls, woodwork and ceiling are a deep maroon. The carpet is Brunswick green and the furniture is all polished mahogany. The curtains are made in a heavy paisley brocade in burgundy and green and they have such a solidity and spread that to see out of the sash windows it is necessary to stand directly in front of them.

Strike arrives first and stows his bag in the wardrobe. Before he can explore, Robin comes in and he winds his arms round her waist before she can put her bag down.

They kiss like established lovers, open-mouthed, probing, unabashed.

"This is a bit different from mine!"

"Is it OK? You said we should take turns ..."

"Of course! I never worry about you choosing a room, not after Hazlitt's ..."

They smile at the shared memory, foreheads together.

"So, I'm going to shower."

"Me too, this time, I think."

"Yeah? Should we maybe ... save the planet and shower together?"

She breaks away and puts her bag on the desk, opening the zip and checking the contents.

Strike frowns, "Robin?"

"Something wrong? We don't have to shower together, if you'd rather not."

"No, I want to ... but last time ..."

She frowns as well now, concerned. "You didn't enjoy it?"

"I did!" He joins her at the desk and spoons her, cupping her breasts gently and earning a small satisfied sound, like he remembers her making in response to her rare consumption of chocolate.

"It was amazing. But ... afterwards, you got up and left."

She turns in his arms and spreads her hands over his chest, luxuriating in the springiness of the hair underneath. "I had surveillance."

"I know." He mouths a line of kisses down her neck. "But I feel like ... we should have talked a bit. Before, or after. Anything but during."

Robin pushes him away a little, so she can look in his eye comfortably.

"Strike, we talked it all though. What else needs to be said?"

"Well ..."

"You don't want to risk the business." She looks down while she unhooks his belt, undoes the waist button of his trousers and unzips him.

"I know, but ..."

"You want to be alone, and unburdened, and free." Her hand slips inside his boxer shorts and finds his erection.

"I .. "

"But you don't want me to be with anyone else." She drops her voice to a whisper as she strokes him lazily. "These are your words, Strike." 

"Yes. Christ, stop a minute or it'll be all over before we unpack."

"So we're agreed." She takes her hand away and is suddenly business-like again. 'We both need a sexual relationship. We don't want to involve anyone else. We have a business to run, a long waiting list, two new employees ... a declared relationship wouldn't be appropriate right now."

"OK, yes, but .."

"So we said we'd do this. Once a fortnight. Nothing outside the hotel room. This is the only bed we intend to visit. All that shit."

"Right. But you can stay for a little bit, tonight?"

She takes his hand and heads for the bathroom. They undress each other and Strike stands while Robin kneels to remove his leg and places it where moisture won't reach it. The rainwater shower cascades down on both their heads, and she doesn't bother to stand up, but takes him in her mouth and brings him off shuddering while he grips the rail.


	3. Chapter 3

The room is a flat, not much more than a bedsit. There is a kitchenette and living area, and a door leading to a space just big enough to hold a double bed.

There's no colour scheme, unless magnolia woodchip interspersed with cheap and serviceable soft furnishings covered in the geometric patterns so loved by major supermarkets counts, and no curtains. The windows are in the eaves, they are small and look out towards the sky.

Strike is already there, sitting in the only armchair, an undistinguished brown affair, watching Jane Tennison solve murders that occur in rooms that resemble this one.

There's a knock at the door.

"It's open."

Robin opens the door but doesn't come in.

"Strike, I'm sorry ... I know you're finished for the day but Pat forgot to get you to sign this. It needs both of us and it's got to go first thing."

"It's OK. Come in. Is that a pen?"

She takes a step into the flat but no more, and leaves the door open.

"You can come in. I won't jump you."

She smiles. "I might jump you though."

He pauses the on-screen drama and goes to take the paperwork from her. He leafs through it, a slight frown of concentration on his face.

"Don't you trust me?"

"When was the last time you signed something without reading it, Ellacott? Just making sure I'm not buying a bridge. Or giving Pat a pay rise."

Satisfied, he flips the pages into place and puts the contract on the wall. Keeping it there with one hand, he waves with the other hand for the pen. She places it in his fingers and there's an accidental brush of skin. He is distracted, and looks towards her. 

She shakes her head.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just ..."

"Just?"

"You standing like that. Reminded me of ... the office."

She doesn't need to say any more. His thoughts immediately run to their first encounter, tipsy, heated, post-pub, when they'd come back to the office late to check a file and been unable to stop it boiling over.

They'd been sitting at Strike's desk, papers strewn, disagreeing about a night-time surveillance. _Robin, let Barclay do it,_ he'd pleaded, and she'd thrown her hands up in disgust and walked out. He caught up with her in the outer office and pulled her around, she'd stumbled against him and they'd stood frozen, touching far too much, drunk, but not too drunk to know what they were doing. 

He backed her against the wall and kissed her with arrears going back four years. They'd pulled at each others clothing, releasing just enough flesh to allow him to hoist her up and fill her with his cock, pressing her against the wall and hoping his leg didn't give way, a grunting, grasping, gutteral fuck, raising her to a climax that she shouted to the rooftops and obliterating Strike's carefully crafted illusion of control and abstinence.

Afterwards, they were both scared by what had happened, the runaway train feel of it, the lack of inhibition, the way it came from nowhere. That was the origin of the rules.

The rules that forbade him wanting her, right now.

He shakes his head as if he can magic 8-ball up another answer to this dilemma and grunts to signal he's right there with her.

She lets out a breathy laugh. "Yeah."

He should leave it there, but the blush on her cheeks is so beautiful. He turns to face her and leans his shoulder on the wall.

"What was the rule again? Nothing outside the hotel room?"

She looks at him, as if to say, _what are you doing, Strike?_

"That's right."

"Hmm. Bit vague."

"No it isn't. 'Nothing' is quite clear."

"So ... when we touched just then, was that something?"

She holds her hand out for the contract.

"No! Accidents will happen. They don't mean anything."

"Oh, right. So are other accidental touches allowed? Other touches that don't mean anything?"

She shakes her head, but she's smiling. Christ, she is so lovely. He rolls up the contract and offers it to her. She takes the other end but then he fails to let it go, and he uses it to gently pull her closer until he can touch her hip with his other hand. She's wearing jeans and a fuzzy sweater, because she hasn't seen any clients today.

"Is this allowed?'

"You know it's not."

"I find my judgment a little impaired right now. You'll have to help me. What about ..."

He slides his hand down to her rear and she exhales and twists away, pulling the contract from his fingers and scraping it slowly along his forearm.

"The rules, Strike!"

He watches her down the step and calls out "Three days to go!" before turning back inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Six months later**

The room is effortlessly superior, hiding neither in monochrome blandness or counterfeit opulence, but charming those who are lucky enough to stay with its simple beauty and lack of artifice. 

The floor is stripped and polished Lignum Vitae, a strata of rich brown, blonde and copper tones. The walls are chartreuse and stone with accents of blue and there is a coverlet, cushions and curtains in an intricately patterned damask, a labyrinth of fruit, creepers and exotic birds. An understated chandelier with columns of hexagonal crystal adorns the ceiling.

A welcoming bottle of chilled white wine stands on the occasional table. Nothing so vantarde as champagne, some impeccable French five star vintage being quietly exceptional.

At key points in the day the room has been cleaned, polished, perfumed, dressed, checked and double-checked. Now, it rests, waiting for the guests to arrive, drink the wine, soak in the bath, dress for dinner, attend the theatre, or perhaps plunge straight into the soft cotton sheets and enjoy each other. 

The room is booked and paid for. But tonight, they do not come.


	5. Chapter 5

The room is a grimy office, accessed off a staircase through a door with a glass panel. In the outer room a group of scruffy kitchen units huddle apologetically in the corner, with a sink, a fridge and a kettle.

There's a dark wooden desk holding telephony equipment and a computer, with an old-fashioned swivel chair which faces over the desk towards the door. A second door leads to an inner room. It stands open, revealing two more desks and a motley assortment of filing cabinets.

Robin sits on the swivel chair in the outer office, holding a cup of tea. Another cup, made stronger, sits on the desk. She knows he'll come down when he hears the kettle being boiled on a Saturday.

Strike comes in and spots the tea. He realises for the first time that tea is one of the ways they communicate when there's nothing they can bring themselves to say. But tea-eloquence isn't really going to cut it today.

"I'm sorry."

Robin shakes her head. "What are you sorry for?"

"I should have called." She looks confused, but he ploughs on. "I'll pay for it."

"You'll pay for ...?"

"The room!" 

A quiet descends. Robin focusses on the drone of coolant circulating in the fridge and tries to marshal her thoughts.

"You didn't ... where were you?"

Strike shrugs, "Pub. Got a bit sloshed. Didn't want to ... but I should have called."

Robin smiles, just the ghost of a smile. "Yes, you should."

"How was the room?"

"I don't know, Strike. I didn't go either."

"You ..."

"Neither of us went."

"Where were you?" 

"I went for a walk. Wanted to think. I should have called, but ..."

Strike takes a gulp of his tea and studies the floor. "What did you need to think about?"

There's no response, so he looks at her and there are tears on her face. His mug rolls to the floor as he steps to her and scoops her to his chest.

"Oh Christ, Robin, don't ... please don't ..."

"Can't do it, Strike. Not any more."

"I know."

"I checked out the website to look at the room. Never seen anything so beautiful. Used to be ..."

"What?"

"... used to be that I'd see a room like that and imagine us in it."

He smiles. "I chose most of my rooms based on imagining you in them."

"But now ..."

Strike braces himself. "I'm sorry, Robin. I'm sorry I got this so wrong."

"Not your fault. Should have been honest from the start."

"So ... be honest now. I can take it."

"I want you to bring me coffee when I'm on surveillance in the Land Rover like you used to. And we'd say it's really not comfortable to talk in the front so we'll sit in the back. And you'd clamber in and pretend I needed a hand. And you really can sit two people in there without knees bumping, but we never managed it."

"Yeah."

"But we don't do that any more, because of the rules."

Strike rubs his face. "I want you to come to the flat with a cup of Betty's Blend after I've been up all night. And I'm pretending to be asleep even though you're clomping all over the place. And you set it down on the bedside table just in case I happen to wake up while it's still warm. And I know that one day, I'm going to level with you, and pull you under the covers. I'll be too tired to fuck but you'll hold me until I drift off, and from that moment we're on a promise."

"I haven't brought you tea since ...'

"I know."

"Strike, do you remember, the first time we ..."

"I'm hardly likely to forget it."

"We were right here, and you kissed me." She kisses him, softly this time, as they are only two weeks and a day in arrears.

"And you pushed me, or I pulled you over here ... " She leads him to the wall and whispers, "Do it Strike, please ..."

"It won't work ... jeans."

"It doesn't matter."

So he slips his hands under her arse and lifts her, pressing her against the plaster, making her feel his hardness, his need for her. Robin's eyes roll back and she shudders against him.

"Robin, are you coming?"

She laughs and buries her face in his neck.

"That's what you do to me. All the time. Fancy room or not. Now please, take me to your bed ..."

He lets her legs fall to the floor.

"... because I want to break some rules."

THE END


End file.
